


Wheel of Westeros Book Four: Rise of Sansa Part Two

by Thrafrau (annmcbee)



Series: Wheel of Westeros [10]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dry Humping, F/M, King's Landing, The Faceless Men, Werewolf Jon Snow, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:01:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22108279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/Thrafrau
Summary: In this chapter, Sansa goes with Littlefinger at the Neck to enlist the help of the remaining Northern forces in taking back Winterfell. Arya makes a final move against Ser Jaime Lannister in the Red Keep. Stannis joins his destiny with that of Jon Snow.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Arya Stark, Long Haul Jon/Daenerys, Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark
Series: Wheel of Westeros [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458574
Comments: 7
Kudos: 17





	Wheel of Westeros Book Four: Rise of Sansa Part Two

**_The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book Four: Rise of Sansa Part Two**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s_ A Song of Ice and Fire _series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series,_ Game of Thrones _. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only_ Game of Thrones _and_ A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Sansa

Snow was falling in gentle swirls over the swamp surrounding Greywater Watch. The little-seen castle itself was barely visible through a thick veil of fog. Sansa felt very nervous leading her mare over the wooden dock, which seemed as if it had been erected overnight. It may well have been, since the tiny castle sat upon a crannog, or floating island, that moved from place to place in the swamps of the Neck. For that reason, it was the safest possible place for Sansa to await the outcome of the battle to regain Winterfell. The houses of the Neck remained faithful to her as the last known living of House Stark, as did most Northern houses, with the exception of House Karstark and House Umber, who sided now with the Boltons. The fog grew heavier as they grew closer and seemed to move like ghosts, enveloping them and dampening their clothes. It gave Sansa an eerie, uncomfortable feeling.

Sansa had filled Petyr in on what had happened while he was in King’s Landing. _Harrold’s going to get us both killed,_ she had whined to Lord Baelish, as she was free to call him now, though he preferred Petyr. _That’s only half true,_ Petyr told her. Her husband might in fact die in battle with Ramsay Bolton, but so be it. If Harrold fell, she would be Lady of the Vale, and even if they failed to retake Winterfell, there was always the Riverlands, currently slipping right through the fingers of the Freys and the Lannisters. The Brotherhood, whatever they had gotten up to, would be sympathetic to their cause, Petyr insisted. When Sansa had probed him about why, he grew pale and changed the subject.

The front gates of Graywater Watch came into view, green moss and ropey strands of ghostskin hanging from the ramparts. It looked like something from a terrible dream. They dismounted as the guards announced their arrival and ordered the opening of the gate.

“It’s not too late,” Sansa said, her voice cracking with dread. “We can run. We can turn around and get to White Harbor…sail east. Just you and me.” She looked over at Petyr and touched his arm. She no longer denied to herself that the man loved her, and she no longer felt obligated to avoid his touch.

He took her hand and kissed it. “Listen to me, my dear. You’ve been running all your life. Terrible things happened to your family and you weep. You like awake at night mourning their fates. You’ve been a bystander to tragedy from the day they executed your father.” He turned to her and took her face in his hands gently. “Stop being a bystander, do you hear me? There’s no justice in the world unless we make it. You loved your family…avenge them!” [1]

For a moment, it looked as if he was going to kiss her, and Sansa closed her eyes. But the moment she did, there was the creaking groan of wood on wood and the loud splashing as the water-powered gates of Greywater Watch opened.

Once they had a chance to refresh themselves, they were to dine in the main hall with Lord Howland Reed, Maege Mormont, Lords Glover and Ryswell along with the heads of the Mountain clans. Randa brushed and styled her hair for her, winding braids around the back of her head in a spiral while leaving a curtain of auburn to flow down her back. She wore a new gown of blue velvet cinched at her middle with a corset of sable fur. At her chest, she herself had embroidered the head of a direwolf, their house sigil, in white and silver thread. She wore a heavy black fur cloak, lined inside with silk quilted in scales of Tully red and blue. She dressed Randa in a Stark grey muslin dress with a cream-colored silk blouse beneath that tied at the neck.

Sansa put on a dour face as she was announced. She must not appear happy, even though her circumstances had improved. She must hold her head high and show no fear, no matter how desperate she actually felt. She sat with Petyr next to Maege Mormont, a leathery warrior woman wearing a suit of mail, her gray hair flowing wildly over her shoulders. She nodded respectfully at Sansa, but merely sniffed and glowered at Petyr. Lord Howland Reed appeared last with his lady wife Jyana, both small and quick, like all crannogmen. All stood at their arrival, and then when all were seated again, several tiny servants brought out the feast. The simple meal consisted mainly of a thin stew of frogs and onions, carrots and potatoes roasted in butter and thyme, and a giant roast pig who had been cooked overnight in a great heated drum until the flesh fell off the bone. There were wheels of sharp cheeses and a sauce of cranberry, and oaten biscuits for dessert. Sansa had never had frog before, and was pleasantly surprised at the taste.

A man arrived late, who Sansa assumed was another member of the mountain clans, with whom she wasn’t very familiar. He was the tallest one in the room, and beardless, with long gray hair and a weathered, craggy, but kind face. _Lord Brynden Tully, the Blackfish_ , the herald announced, and Sansa gasped. It was her great uncle, who had been missing and assumed dead since the Lannisters and Freys had taken her mother’s home of Riverrun. He stepped over to her and smiled.

“Uncle,” Sansa said. “What an unexpected joy it is to know you’re alive!”

“Likewise,” he replied, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “You’re as lovely and ever the lady your mother always was.”

Maege moved down to allow the Blackfish to sit next to her. He explained that he had been in hiding at Greywater Watch for months while his battle wounds healed. Several loyal soldiers had followed him, and along with the crannogmen had been seeking her out for a long time before making contact with Petyr Baelish, whom he called “Littlefinger.” It was then that Maege Mormont to let out a belch and a request to get to the business that had brought them together. The servants dashed out, shutting the doors of the hall tight behind them. Beneath the table, Petyr took her hand and held it. She gave his fingers a firm squeeze, and stood up, taking charge of the conversation immediately, just as he had instructed.

By the time the feast was done, Sansa was dizzy. The frog meat swam in circles inside her stomach. Her mind was racing and fluttering as she lay next to Randa in the guest tower, and she could not sleep a wink, although she should have been exhausted. Her sister hadn’t married Ramsay Bolton, but was missing and maybe dead. But her brothers, Bran and Rickon, were alive! So Theon Greyjoy, her father’s ward who had been raised with her like a brother, did not hang and burn them. They had escaped, and now Rickon was en route to Bear Island and Bran was waiting at the Wall – both exiled for their own protection. No one outside the room was to know they lived…it was dangerous enough for Sansa, who had the Knights of the Vale at her back. Sansa had wept openly in Petyr’s arms as the others looked on skeptically.

Jon Snow had deserted the Watch, but not for recruiting Wildlings to dismantle it. He had merely attempted a mission to Winterfell, to rescue some Wildling prisoners and his own sister Arya, which amounted to forswearing his vow not to involve himself in matters of the Kingdoms. Jeyne Poole it seemed had married Ramsay in Arya’s place, so in the end it hadn’t mattered. Lords Glover and Ryswell called him a traitor, and with apologies to Sansa, called for his execution. Maege Mormont defended him. True, he had made an alliance with a band of Wildlings, but he had done so in the North’s interest. The Lords of the Mountain Clans, furthermore, spoke of something dark and terrible that had happened to Jon at the Wall. The black brothers they had apparently talked to refused to say much, but they believed he already had been executed for desertion, and then had somehow returned to life. _He skinchanged with his wolf as the noose squeezed the life from his body_ , the Liddle said, _so his soul never left, and the Old Gods brought him back_. Lord Glover had guffawed, and Petyr had scoffed, but the others scratched their chins as if actually considering it might be true. When the discussion began to get heated, Sansa had stood up.

“My lords, please,” she had said. “Jon Snow is my natural brother, and I know him to be dutiful and honorable as our father was. He remained true to the Watch when Lord Stark and King Robb were killed. He was made Lord Commander at a very tender age. I am certain, that if he did forswear his vows, he had his reasons…” _And the reason is probably Arya,_ she thought bitterly, remembering how close the two of them had been. “But it’s far too hasty to call him already executed – in any fashion. He did not raid Winterfell, after all, and I don’t believe he would have left the Watch voluntarily. If he lives, he deserves a chance to defend his actions. If we gain Winterfell, I will ask him to come home and explain what happened. Then it is up to my brother Bran, as Warden of the North, to decide his fate…”

In bed, Randa began to snore very softly, so Sansa gave her a little kick. The former lady Royce rolled over and was again silent. During the Festival of the Mother, Sansa recalled, people enjoyed feasts of pickled eggs and roast rabbit to celebrate life and fertility, and released giant flocks of doves as a symbol of the Mother’s mercy. This Festival of the Father was supposed to renew confidence in the members of the Faith of the Seven who might be tempted to look into Rh’llor when their faith was shaken. _What symbolizes justice,_ Sansa thought? _A sword?_ Sansa could still see her father’s severed head on the spike above the Red Keep, which Joffrey had forced her to look at, though it didn’t really look like him at that moment. She pictured Jon dangling from a hangman’s rope, his long legs kicking and his grey eyes turning red, and shuddered. Of course, it had been fire that felled the Great Sept. The Brotherhood, whom they needed if they were going to take the Riverlands and the North back, had hung rapers and reavers who ran ragged over the smallfolk after the war had commenced. The symbol of their god was a heart on fire. Stannis Baratheon, it was rumored, had burned all the statues of the Seven at Dragonstone, and young King Griff had ordered them remade even better than before. _That is what justice is… making a wrong right so those left behind by the dead could go on living._

She got up quietly and threw on her robe. Then she tiptoed softly to Petyr Baelish’s chamber and knocked softly.

“Sansa, my dear,” Petyr whispered when he came to the door. It was clear he hadn’t been sleeping either. He opened for her to enter.

“Here’s your Festival of the Father: a great bonfire, into which the people can throw effigies…wooden figures of those who have done them injustice. Then in the fire they can cook a big fat suckling pig and eat it.”

“Boar,” Petyr said. “Like the one who felled King Robert.”

“Or stag. Like King Robert himself.”

Petyr laughed. He put his hands on her face as he had earlier, and they kissed – more deeply than they had at the Eyrie before her aunt Lysa had spied them. Sansa hadn’t been kissed since Harrold had been untrue to her. Petyr didn’t slobber all over her urgently, as Harrold had always done, so unable to control himself. Instead, he caressed her and ran his fingers through her hair lightly, slowly, as if they had all the time in the world.

Chapter 2: Ser Meryn/Arya/Nymeria

At the edge of Blackwater Bay were numerous little ports – secret ones, to which the larger shipments of wine, or lace, or precious gems didn’t come. A crumbling stone wall was meant to keep out smugglers and refuges, who came in and went out anyway by way of a muddy, fish-stinking eddy and a tiny, rotting pier, to which an enterprising criminal might tie a large rowboat. The one Ser Meryn was looking at now, with Arya’s eyes, reeked of something foul and fishy…obviously meant to deter anyone from coming near, so that the true cargo would go unnoticed.

“Fermented crab,” the young Dornish woman was saying. She lifted the canvas draped over the boat at its corner, revealing a small barrel. Popping off the lid, she scooped a finger full of white flakes of soggy crabmeat, then held it out to Meryn and the two Gold Cloaks who accompanied him.

In the dead of night, they had followed Ser Jaime Lannister down to the edge of the Bay where he was taking Prince Trystane Martell, most likely to murder him so that he would no longer interfere with Cersei’s use of her daughter Myrcella as a puppet queen. Ser Meryn Trant would make sure the plan was carried out, even in the face of any suspicious City Watchmen like these who brought it to his attention. Instead, with Ser Meryn’s voice, Arya would demand they follow. When they had arrived, Prince Trystane was in a rowboat, under the cover of an old smelly canvas, and Ser Jaime was about to push off for the young woman, who must have been a Martell of sorts. He wasn’t killing the prince…he was helping him get away.

“One bucket of this triples a brothel’s earning for the week,” the Dornish woman was saying. “A man thinks he is done…he’s ready to go back to his loving family…but before he gets his breeches up, his lady of the hour pops a tiny spoon of _this_ into his mouth…” She held up the slimy slivers of crab still on her fingers. “…and five minutes later, he’s back in the race!”

She walked toward Meryn and the two Gold Cloaks, adding an alluring sway to her hips. A single dark braid hung down her back. Her leather breeches were alarmingly tight, and the sleeveless blue silk blouse she had tucked into them clung to the sweat on her breasts. Arya noticed a very lethal-looking lance leaning against the rowboat. She also noted the gold bracelets on both arms, shaped like snakes. The young woman seductively slipped the crab between the lips of one Gold Cloak, then went to the boat and returned with more for the other, as well as a hefty mouthful for Meryn himself. It tasted the way that moon blood smelled, plus vomit and fish soup.

“I’d hurry to your favorite establishment, gentlemen,” Ser Jaime said. “…or you’ll put a hole in that chain mail.”[2]

“Forgive me, my lord,” a Gold Cloak said when he had swallowed, making a disgusted face. “But we followed you and another man in a hood…just seems odd is all…”

At that moment, the canvas over the boat flew off, and the young Dornish prince popped up, gasping for air. Trystane looked at Jaime, who looked at the Gold Cloaks, who looked at Ser Meryn. The Dornish woman ran for the lance as the Gold Cloaks drew their swords. But Meryn drew his own sword, and drove it through one’s throat. Before the other knew what was happening, the woman’s lance had gone right through his helmet. She looked at Meryn surprised.

“Go,” Arya said with Meryn’s voice.

The woman looked at Ser Jaime, who nodded, then she took her lance and jumped into the boat. As the prince thanked Jaime one last time, Arya contemplated how far she should let them sail before swinging Trant’s sword and taking off Ser Jaime’s golden head.

Jaime turned to Meryn and eyed him up and down. “Just what do you think you’re doing, Trant?”

“You’re welcome.”

“Of course I’m not welcome, so why not just tell me what you want. Keeping in mind my access to little girls you can knock around is rather limited.” He stood very close to Meryn as he spoke, contempt in his voice.

“Tell me of your plans for the Black Bastard and Sansa Stark,” Meryn said.

“You were there. You heard the Queen’s command.”

“Queen Regent.”

Jaime tilted his head and eyed Meryn Trant carefully. Arya had to be careful. Meryn Trant had always been very loyal to Cersei. That he would turn on her would raise doubts in the kingslayer, as Jaime was called, and confuse him. That was good, but he might also decide to kill Trant in lieu of Trystane if he felt he was being played.

“My job is to protect Myrcella,” Arya continued in Meryn’s voice. “You know the Queen Regent better than anyone…do you really think this particular order is in Myrcella’s interest, when the North is so important?”

When Cersei had given the order, it was all Arya could do not to march up and put a sword in her belly that very moment. She could have done it, too, though it would have been the last thing she’d ever do. But killing Jaime first, taking his face, and then bashing her face in with the kingslayer’s gold hand was so much more appealing. Until that moment, when Jaime had argued against the order, that had been the plan, but now Arya wasn’t sure. Ser Jaime hadn’t been able to convince Cersei not to have Jon and Sansa killed, so he insisted on taking charge of the mission himself, consigning the actual killing to Lord Bronn of Stokeworth under his supervision. But as with Trystane, Arya wondered if he might have changed his mind somehow.

“What is it, then? You wanted the privilege for yourself? Didn’t get enough out of beating Lady Sansa in front of the court, so you want to finish her off is that it?” Jaime asked Meryn, his still-intact left hand on the hilt of his sword.

“I mean only that you seemed to think better of the order, and to let you know that I’ll cover you, if need be.” Arya place a hand on Meryn’s sword hilt, too.

Arya hadn’t known that Trant hurt her sister. She only knew that he killed Syrio Forel, the dancing master, from whom she had learned to use a sword. As Ser Ornwell Hill, she had moved up in the ranks of the City Watch quickly. It wasn’t too hard, since most Gold Cloaks were practically useless. Trant would know…he knighted most of them. Orny had proved very useful in gaining Ser Meryn’s confidence. Trant had followed him into the very alley in which Arya had dispatch Orny months earlier. All Orny had to say was that they had found a traitor…a spy for the Brotherhood Without Banners. However, once he and Orny were alone in that alley, Meryn had become suspicious.

“Just what in Seven Hells are you pulling you bloody bastard? Did you bring me here just to waste my time or what?” Ser Meryn had spat.

“Of course not Ser…the spy is there in the corner…look!”

When Meryn turned around, Orny got close, and Arya whispered in his voice, “ _I just wanted to show you how to make a head on a stick_!” Then she placed Orny’s hand over Trant’s mouth, and plunged Orny’s dirk above his tailbone just where his armor ended. She yanked the hilt like a lever, making a snapping, tearing sound. When Meryn went down, she rolled him onto his back and punched him in the throat to keep him quiet. He could no longer move of course, but his droopy eyes thrashed in terror under the lids.

“There you go…now you’re a head on a stick!” [3]Then Orny had disappeared, and Arya Stark stood over Ser Meryn as a puddle of blood formed beneath him. She drew Needle from her belt, and while his voice still struggled, stabbed the knight directly in the eyeball, deep…and deeper, until small gagging sounds and coughs of horror arose from his gaping mouth.

“Do you feel this?” Arya asked. She drew Needle slowly out of his eye, then stuck it in the other, again very slowly sinking the blade into his skull. “Do you know who I am? Do you remember my master, Syrio Forel, the Braavosi?”

Trant’s mouth had opened and closed like a fish out of water, his tongue wagging. Arya withdrew Needle again, then squatted low and skewered his tongue with it, as guttural moans arose from his nose and throat. Then she pulled slowly, splitting his tongue through and leaving it forked, like a snake’s. _Appropriate_ , she had thought. When Trant’s voice began to return, she stared down at him for one last moment, then brought the heel of her boot down on his throat again and again until he had choked, sputtered, and died.

As Trant, it would only be a matter of time until she could get close enough to Jaime to end him. Now was as perfect a moment as she would get, but his contempt of Trant, and particularly since it seemed in defense of Sansa, stayed her hand.

“It happens I didn’t need your cover, Ser Meryn,” Jaime said. “Not until now. But given the circumstances, you may as well know that I don’t plan on killing either the bastard or the girl. I plan on protecting them.”

“Protect them? But why?”

“For a friend…that’s all you need know. Now help me strip down and dump these bodies in the Bay before someone comes.”

He bent to seize one of the fallen men by the breastplate buckles with his one good hand. Obviously he really did need help. The renowned knight Jaime Lannister. For a brief moment, Arya felt pity for him.

“Don’t strip them. They need to be weighed down. In fact, we should find some stones to fill their breeches,” Arya said in Trant’s voice.

“Speaking of filling breeches, are you getting anything off of that crab? Or are there not enough terrified little girls around at the moment?” Jaime asked.

Arya shook Meryn’s head…either Trant was impotent, or fermented crab was merely a scam. In silence, she searched for rocks in the sand. Time was of the essence, and not just for Ser Meryn and Jaime. Arya had learned the importance of weighing down a body rather quickly after a couple of her Gold Cloaks’ corpses had been found, robbing her of the use of their faces. When a body was taken possession by someone other than the Faceless Men who had trained her, the face was not available for their use. Orny only remained at her disposal, perhaps because he’d gotten caught on something at the bottom of the canal. It was only a matter of time, though. When the body was taken, so was the face.

No one said a word when drunk fishmonger’s son Tormy had washed up, but when it was members of the City Watch, people took notice. The Brotherhood was being blamed for their deaths, but there was also a rumor that a young comely girl was seen offing one of them. The whispers called her _Mercy_ …a coincidence. That was just what the Gold Cloaks were said to call out as they died. It was too close for comfort, however, even after Mercy’s face had faded and disappeared. Perhaps the Faceless Men had taken her back. The Beacon Street Mummers would find a pretty girl with big tits easily enough, but they begged Arya to stay anyway. _No one will know it’s you…it’s been so long_ , Merry had said with tears in her eyes. But Arya couldn’t take that chance. She not only had to leave the Mummers, she had to kill the Queen and get out of King’s Landing quickly. Now it seemed the Queen Regent would have to wait. Jon was in trouble – that was clear – and Sansa was alive, but probably in trouble too. Cersei would die one way or another, but Arya’s family needed her help. When they were okay, and Cersei was dead, perhaps she would join the troupe again. Perhaps.

As they shoved the bodies off the end of the pier and watched them sink, Arya considered killing Jaime one last time, but she followed him back to the Red Keep instead.

That night, she ran wild through the woods outside Hag’s Mire, the ground spongy and cold under her huge paws. She caught the scent of her prey as they squished loudly over the terrain, breathing panicked breaths of terror. They had escaped their castle, leaving it in the hands of enemies, not knowing a more grisly fate awaited them in the wilderness. When she fell upon them with her pack, the younger Frey shot an arrow at one of the pack and missed. In an instant, two of her pack ran at the old man, bald and specky, and rent him in halves before diving into the delectable warm entrails. Nymeria leapt upon the younger Frey, clamping onto his shoulder and ripping off the arm easily. The hot blood wet her face and breast as she then snatched at the groin, sinking her teeth into the tender flesh of his loins and tearing them to shreds. His screams faded and died as he did, and she devoured the choicest morsels of flesh before letting the lesser of the pack dine on what was left. She felt a terrible urge then, striking the back of her beneath her tail. It was the painful longing of estrus, though it was no season for rutting, and there were no males who would suffice. The males of her own pack were too little and afraid of her. Her brother wolves were far, far north. The moon stared down and mocked her need. She howled herself awake.

Arya lay awake in Trant’s bed, still fully dressed, an erection testing the integrity of his laces. She rose and put on his armor, then stole out into the corridor. A secret door to the left side led to a narrow hall, basically a tunnel that was a direct route to Ser Jaime’s quarters. Arya had managed to discover a number of secret passageways in the Keep – most of which weren’t entirely useful as of yet. But this one she kept special note of. When she emerged from the passageway into the hall leading to Jaime’s chambers, she saw Ilyn Payne of all people, guarding the door. Payne had been made royal executioner by King Robert. He was mute, having had his tongue taken out with hot pincers by King Aerys for uttering some slight against his authority. It had been Payne who took off her father’s head. As Ser Meryn approached Payne, he stood looking confused, eyeing the pronounced boner in Meryn’s breeches.

“What’s wrong, Ilyn Payne? Nothing to say?”

She swiped Trant’s dagger across the old executioner’s throat, from which a red curtain of blood fell. Then she once and for all became Arya Stark, and stepped over his collapsed body toward Jaime Lannister’s door.

Ser Jaime slept alone. Arya had done enough spying throughout the castle to notice that if he did visit the Queen Regent’s chambers, it wasn’t often. He usually broke his fast with Myrcella in fact, and got up to leave as soon as Cersei came in the room. He slept on his back, also fully dressed, and also with an erection. His right arm, which ended in a stump instead of a hand, was resting on his belly. Arya observed in spite of herself how very handsome he was: chiseled cheeks, a straight, dignified nose, hair like polished gold. Usually she couldn’t look at him without seeing the detestable Joffrey, but now he was so vulnerable, so savory-looking, like a choice tenderloin just waiting for the knife.

She straddled him so delicately it was a few seconds before he awoke with his own dagger at his throat and Needle hovering above his eyeball. His erection dug into Arya’s groin in just the right spot, making her shift slightly and break into a sweat. Jaime did not move or make a sound.

“Who are you,” he whispered.

Arya lowered Needle so that the butt rested against his cheek. “You’ve got a pretty face, Kingslayer…”

“What do you want?”

Arya drew Needle slowly down to his chin. “Do you like it…your pretty…golden face?”

“Did Trant send you?”

Arya jabbed Needle’s tip into his chin, and a trickle of blood ran down onto his throat, where the dagger waited unflinching. “I asked you a question. _Do you like it_?”

Jaime trembled. “Yes.”

“I like it too…”[4]

She unlaced her jerkin, which seemed to have become extraordinarily tight. Her smallclothes had become awfully wet in the crotch as well. She yanked at the tunic beneath her jerkin to let air in between her breasts, such as they were.

“Tell me what you want, or kill me and get it over with,” Jaime said.

He hadn’t placed his good hand on her anywhere – though his cock was as hard as steel between her legs. When she shifted slightly and leaned down to smell his hair, he groaned not in pleasure but in discomfort. Arya breathed in his scent, memorizing it.

“Sing me a song,” she whispered into his ear.

“What?”

“A song,” Arya said, and placed the tip of Needle under his eyeball again. “Now.”

She perched herself directly on top of his erection, so that every little movement sent a tiny spark of pleasure into her loins. Under his breath, sweat beading on his forehead, Jaime began to sing. Arya rocked back and forth to the tune.

_One more thing before I go_

_One more thing I’ll ask you lord_

_You may need a murderer_

_Someone to do your dirty work_

_Well I’m cruel_

_And I look right through_

_You must have more important things to do_

_So if you need a murderer… **[5]**_

The orgasm tore through her groin and leg muscles, and Arya said, “Enough!” She slid off Jaime’s body and stood beside the bed, still holding the dagger and sword.

“Tell me who you are,” Jaime insisted.

“I’m Arya Stark of Winterfell,” she answered. “And I’m going home now.”

She leaned over him and ran the edge of the dagger over his ear and across one side of his face. Jaime cried out and put his left hand over the wound, and by the time he removed it, Arya was gone.

Chapter 3: Stannis

The Bastard and his men were setting up camp at the southern end of Long Lake when Ser Davos had spied them. He and Stannis now watched them from above over a craggy snow-covered hill, taking turns peering at them through a refracting glass tube. Jon Snow was a black blot among grey and brown, milling around, setting up tents and edging out into the frozen water to test the ice. The cold had left it mostly frozen solid, though now some streams of sunlight pierced the clouds and made drifting snowflakes glitter in the air.

“What do you think his plan is?” Stannis asked Davos in a low voice. The Bastard’s band of Wildlings was formidable, but not large enough to take Winterfell alone.

“If I were him,” Davos said. “I’d use my knowledge of the castle to sneak in and cut off their access to supplies. Starve them out.”

“Then what.”

“No idea. But I see he has the princess with him, so perhaps that enters into his thinking.”

Davos was right. Stannis could see by the white cloak she wore that the princess Val, sister by law to the King Beyond the Wall, was with them. She was seated on a pile of displaced snow, stretching lines of gut for fishing purposes. There was no sign of the Wildling babe Jon had traded for the king’s, or of the boy Rickon Stark, with whom the Bastard had reunited on the island of Skagos.

“What do you think it means?” Stannis asked after a pause. “His rising from the dead.”

Davos let out a sigh. “I think it means the poor bastard can’t rest. Someone or something won’t let him. From what I saw on Skagos, I get the feeling it might be for good reason.”

“What if Azor Ahai isn’t a prince, and Lightbringer isn’t a sword…”

“Your grace?”

In no time, the camp was set up below, and a shanty was set up on the ice. Every member of the party was busy at a task: constructing trenches for lookout in the snow, sharpening arrows, building a fire with dried tinder that must have been collected along the way, all under the direction of the Bastard, for whom the Wildling warriors seemed to have a deal of respect. There were others there too, who were not Wildlings. Stannis saw the sigil of the Mormonts, a rearing black bear on a shield. At least one of the party was all in black, like the Bastard himself. Had he gotten some of them to desert along with him? Had he gotten Northmen and Wildlings to march side by side?

Stannis looked hard at the Onion Knight. “I suppose you needn’t call me _Grace_ , for now. I yielded, and now I guess I’ll kiss the ground beneath Young Griff’s feet.”[6]

“Something in your tone suggests otherwise, Your…my Lord.”

Suddenly they saw the Bastard look up pointedly in their direction, and they edged backward until the hill obscured them.

“He couldn’t have heard us…” Davos said, but in a hushed voice that suggested he wondered.

“Raise the flag,” Stannis ordered.

The Bastard and he giant redheaded Wildling captain named Tormund had set about teaching Stannis’s men to fish in the ice, and in an hour there was enough fish to make a good stew that would feed everyone. The men remarked how it was the first time they had ever had success fishing in Long Lake. It was almost unnatural, as if the fish had been waiting for the Bastard’s permission to take their baits, they said not quite jokingly. Stannis attributed the big catch to Jon’s knowledge of Northern fishing…but it was somewhat astonishing all the same.

They ate together in Jon’s tent along with Tormund, Davos and his son Devan, and Jon’s man who had left the Watch with him.

“Did you hear us on the hill, spying on you?” Stannis asked.

The Bastard set aside his bowl, which he had emptied somewhat voraciously in a matter of seconds. He tipped a horn of ale into his mouth, draining it before looking at Stannis with hard grey eyes.

“I smelled you,” he said.

Stannis met his look with a similar analytical coldness. The Bastard was thinner and taller than he remembered, and a thick black beard had begun to grow on his chin – obviously he was no longer a boy by any stretch of the imagination. A fresh set of red scratches striped right side of his face. The older, deeper scar over his left eye remained, strangely, even beyond death. His formerly long black hair was cut short – only a tip of fringe showed beneath the woolen cap he wore for warmth. He wore black leather armor over a black tunic and black boots, and he moved over the snow so quickly that it was easy to lose track of him. On his shoulder often perched an enormous black bird who squawked a word every now and then: _corn_ , _snow_ , and sometimes _king_ for some reason. His white direwolf also stuck close to his side, though he tore off after the fishing was done, probably to hunt a meal of more substance somewhere in the woods. Jon wore his breastplate even to sleep, his young steward had mentioned, the blue-eyed boy with silken curly hair who accepted neither the title “steward” nor “squire.” _You can call Satin my henchman_ , Jon Snow had told them, _if you feel you need to call him_.

“You might have heard there’s a new king in the South…seems his claim is stronger than my own, so you needn’t keep the former courtesies,” Stannis admitted.

Jon sniffed. “I don’t know this Griff,” he said. “As far as I can tell, his claim to the throne rests entirely on his relation to the Mad King, who my father fought to overthrow, and that relation hasn’t been proven.”

“So you refute his claim.”

“It’s not my place to refute anything. I’m an outlaw, in case you haven’t gathered. I’ll save what courtesies I have left to stomach on the one who earns my allegiance.”

Tormund laughed at that. “He’s spent too much time with the Freefolk – now he doesn’t like kneeling!”[7]

Stannis didn’t laugh. “I see the Freefolk don’t hesitate to follow him,” he said, glancing at Tormund and then back at Jon. “Do you think you can fish for men as well as you fish for trout, bastard?”[8]

“I’m not a great solver of riddles, my lord,” Jon said.

“Now I don’t think that’s true. You solved the riddle of death, did you not?”

“I didn’t solve anything. I’ve no idea what happened that night.”

“No? Your men have ideas about it…”

Jon looked at Tormund who met his eyes without hesitation. Stannis saw that Satin and Devan looked at him too, the way a dog looks at its pack leader.

“I have ideas too,” Stannis said. “You want to forget it…I understand that. You want to think your destiny is up to you…I understand that too. But it’s not.”

Jon nodded, as if he understood. After a moment, he said, “The Lady Melisandre…I…”

“I know. She told me.”

Melisandre had told Stannis before leaving for Volantis that she lay with Jon Snow at the Wall, though he refused to give her his seed. She still believed Stannis to be Azor Ahai, but Jon Snow’s power had nearly killed her. After leaving him, she had gone to her room, and the glamour that kept her young appearance had melted away. Melisandre was centuries old, though she would never reveal _how many_ centuries. Magic kept her beautiful as a young maid, but if her power was in any way sapped by something, she would look like a withered old crone.[9] She told Stannis she did not know what brought him back, or what he was, and she needed to go to the Red Temple and consult the priests and priestesses of Volantis. It was said that the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, was to say the words and become a servant of Rh’llor. She needed to be there for that too.

“My lord,” Jon said, looking at his hands. “I meant no disrespect to you.”

“What disrespect? The Lady Melisandre belongs to Rh’llor – not to me. And not to you.”

Jon nodded, again understanding. “With respect to your god and his power, I will not use bloodmagic to confront Roose Bolton. I will make my way into Winterfell in secret and take his life with my sword and my hands.”

“And when their lord is gone, the men are as good as gone,” Davos said. “They fight for him out of fear.”

“And what of the bastard Ramsay?” Stannis asked.

“He’s mine,” Tormund said with solemn determination.

“And then? Should this plan succeed, what will you do?” Stannis asked Jon.

“Winterfell belongs to my brothers. Once they’re safe, I’m marching back North to fight the dead…”

“That’s where I’m going,” Stannis said. “You are not alone in this fight, Jon Snow. This war is also my destiny. And since we need Winterfell to fight this war, I mean to see you get Winterfell.”

Jon’s look grew less dark, as Stannis thought it might. Of course they needed Winterfell away from the Boltons. In the event that the Others got past the Wall, it was the safest refuge the people could hope for, and had the strongest defenses.

“Do that, and you have my allegiance as much as any king, no matter his birthright,” Jon said. “But it won’t matter if I’m to be beheaded for desertion.”

“It seems to me you didn’t desert the Watch,” Davos cut in. “Sounds rather like they deserted you.”

“I will convince young Griff to grant you a pardon,” Stannis said.

The black bird flew onto Jon’s shoulder then, and Jon slipped him a bite of dried corn before petting him on his shiny black back. _Pardon_ , it said. _Pardon!_

“Have you bent the knee to the Targaryen?”

“More or less. My fealty is reliant on his marriage to another Targaryen…a true descendant of the line without doubt. Since he hasn’t yet fulfilled his end of the bargain, I consider myself without allegiance other than to her…and she’s demanded no kneeling as of yet…”

Tormund chuckled at that, but Satin’s eyes grew wide at the mention of the Queen across the sea. “At any rate, I do not acknowledge the rule of the Lannister cub, any more than I did her brothers,” Stannis finished.

“To defeat the dead, we need the Dragon Queen…and we need the Lannister cub too,” Jon said.

“How so?”

“The wildfire.”

Stannis nodded, remembering how his fleet had been destroyed utterly in Blackwater Bay. He had nearly lost Davos, and Davos had lost a son.

“I think we’ll get neither without compromise,” Davos said.

“I’m willing to fight slavers, if that’s what Daenerys Targaryen wants. But the only compromise I’ll make regarding the Lannisters is with Griff. If he needs help exterminating Cersei and her followers, he can have it,” Stannis said.

“There may not be enough time to grant these favors,” Jon said. “Truth be told, I don’t expect to survive the war with the Others, as no one should. I need to take Winterfell for my brothers now. What happens beyond that is in the gods’ hands.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Winter is coming. But there is only one god, son.”

His own brothers crept into Stannis’s mind then, unbidden. When he had parlayed with his younger brother, Renly had offered him a peach. Years after Melisandre’s shadow son by his seed had killed Renly, Stannis could smell that peach still. In his dreams, he saw Renly enjoying that peach, the juices dripping down his chin as the graveworms crawled in and out of his eyes. Jon’s words reminded him too, of what Renly had said after he refused it. _A man should never refuse to taste a peach. He may never get the chance again. Life is short, Stannis_.[10] It was true. The bastard knew.

Perhaps there was more than one god after all.

[1] Benioff, David and D.B. Weiss. _Game of Thrones_. Season 5, Episode 3: “High Sparrow,” HBO, 2015.

[2] Benioff and Weiss. _Game of Thrones._ Season 7, Episode 5: “Eastwatch,” HBO, 2017.

[3] McLean, Greg. _Wolf Creek_ , FFC Australia, 2005.

[4] Craven, Wes. _The Serpent and the Rainbow_ , Universal Pictures, 1988.

[5] Low. “Murderer,” _Drums and Guns_ , Sup Pop, 2007.

[6] Shakespeare, _MacBeth_ , Act 5, Scene 8, line 32-33.

[7] Benioff and Weiss. _Game of Thrones_ , Season 7, Episode 6, “Beyond the Wall,” HBO, 2017.

[8] _The Holy Bible_. Mark 1:16-18.

[9] Benioff & Weiss. _Game of Thrones_ , Season 7, Episode 1, “The Red Woman,” HBO, 2017.

[10] Martin, George R. R. _A Clash of Kings_ , Bantam, 2012.


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